Charles was an affectionate son, and the Long Vacation passed very
happily at home. He was up early, and read steadily till luncheon, and
then he was at the service of his father, mother, and sisters for the
rest of the day. He loved the calm, quiet country; he loved the
monotonous flow of time, when each day is like the other; and, after
the excitement of Oxford, the secluded parsonage was like a haven
beyond the tossing of the waves. The whirl of opinions and perplexities
which had encircled him at Oxford now were like the distant sound of
the ocean—they reminded him of his present security. The undulating
meadows, the green lanes, the open heath, the common with its
wide-spreading dusky elms, the high timber which fringed the level path
from village to village, ever and anon broken and thrown into groups,
or losing itself in copses—even the gate, and the stile, and the
turnpike-road had the charm, not of novelty, but of long familiar use;
they had the poetry of many recollections. Nor was the dilapidated,
deformed church, with its outside staircases, its unsightly galleries,
its wide intruded windows, its uncouth pews, its low nunting table, its
forlorn vestry, and its damp earthy smell, without its pleasant
associations to the inner man; for there it was that for many a year,
Sunday after Sunday, he had heard his dear father read and preach;
there were the old monuments, with Latin inscriptions and strange
devices, the black boards with white letters, the Resurgams and
grinning skulls, the fire-buckets, the faded militia-colours, and,
almost as much a fixture, the old clerk, with a Welsh wig over his
ears, shouting the responses out of place—which had arrested his
imagination, and awed him when a child. And then there was his home
itself; its well-known rooms, its pleasant routine, its order, and its
comfort—an old and true friend, the dearer to him because he had made
new ones. “Where I shall be in time to come I know not,” he said to
himself; “I am but a boy; many things which I have not a dream of,
which my imagination cannot compass, may come on me before I die—if I
live; but here at least, and now, I am happy, and I will enjoy my
happiness. Some say that school is the pleasantest time of one's life;
this does not exclude college. I suppose care is what makes life so
wearing. At present I have no care, no responsibility; I suppose I
shall feel a little when I go up for my degree. Care is a terrible
thing; I have had a little of it at times at school. What a strange
thing to fancy, I shall be one day twenty-five or thirty! How the weeks
are flying by! the Vacation will soon be over. Oh, I am so happy, it
quite makes me afraid. Yet I shall have strength for my day.”
Sometimes, however, his thoughts took a sadder turn, and he
anticipated the future more vividly than he enjoyed the present. Mr.
Malcolm had come to see them, after an absence from the parsonage for
several years: his visit was a great pleasure to Mr. Reding, and not
much less to himself, to whom a green home and a family circle were
agreeable sights, after his bachelor-life at college. He had been a
great favourite with Charles and his sisters as children, though now
his popularity with them for the most part rested on the memory of the
past. When he told them amusing stories, or allowed them to climb his
knee and take off his spectacles, he did all that was necessary to gain
their childish hearts; more is necessary to conciliate the affection of
young men and women; and thus it is not surprising that he lived in
their minds principally by prescription. He neither knew this, nor
would have thought much about it if he had; for, like many persons of
advancing years, he made himself very much his own centre, did not care
to enter into the minds of others, did not consult for them, or find
his happiness in them. He was kind and friendly to the young people, as
he would be kind to a canary-bird or a lap-dog; it was a sort of
external love; and, though they got on capitally with him, they did not
miss him when gone, nor would have been much troubled to know that he
was never to come again. Charles drove him about the country, stamped
his letters, secured him his newspapers from the neighbouring town, and
listened to his stories about Oxford and Oxford men. He really liked
him, and wished to please him; but, as to consulting him in any serious
matter, or going to him for comfort in affliction, he would as soon
have thought of betaking him to Dan the pedlar, or old Isaac who played
the Sunday bassoon.
“How have your peaches been this year, Malcolm?” said Mr. Reding one
day after dinner to his guest.
“You ought to know that we have no peaches in Oxford,” answered Mr.
Malcolm.
“My memory plays me false, then: I had a vision of, at least,
October peaches on one occasion, and fine ones too.”
“Ah, you mean at old Tom Spindle's, the jockey's,” answered Mr.
Malcolm; “it's true, he had a bit of a brick wall, and was proud of it.
But peaches come when there is no one in Oxford to eat them; so either
the tree, or at least the fruit, is a great rarity there. Oxford wasn't
so empty once; you have old mulberry-trees there in record of better
days.”
“At that time, too,” said Charles, “I suppose, the more expensive
fruits were not cultivated. Mulberries are the witness, not only of a
full college, but of simple tastes.”
“Charles is secretly cutting at our hothouse here,” said Mr. Reding;
“as if our first father did not prefer fruits and flowers to beef and
mutton.”
“No, indeed,” said Charles, “I think peaches capital things; and as
to flowers, I am even too fond of scents.”
“Charles has some theory, then, about scents, I'll be bound,” said
his father; “I never knew a boy who so placed his likings and
dislikings on fancies. He began to eat olives directly he read the
OEdipus of Sophocles; and, I verily believe, will soon give up oranges
from his dislike to King William.”
“Every one does so,” said Charles: “who would not be in the fashion?
There's Aunt Kitty, she calls a bonnet, 'a sweet' one year, which makes
her 'a perfect fright' the next.”
“You're right, papa, in this instance,” said his mother; “I know he
has some good reason, though I never can recollect it, why he smells a
rose, or distils lavender. What is it, my dear Mary?”
“'Relics ye are of Eden's bowers,'“ said she.
“Why, sir, that was precisely your own reason just now,” said
Charles to his father.
“There's more than that,” said Mrs. Reding, “if I knew what it was.”
“He thinks the scent more intellectual than the other senses,” said
Mary, smiling.
“Such a boy for paradoxes!” said his mother.
“Well, so it is in a certain way,” said Charles, “but I can't
explain. Sounds and scents are more ethereal, less material; they have
no shape—like the angels.”
Mr. Malcolm laughed. “Well, I grant it, Charles,” he said; “they are
length without breadth!”
“Did you ever hear the like?” said Mrs. Reding, laughing too; “don't
encourage him, Mr. Malcolm; you are worse than he. Angels length
without breadth!”
“They pass from place to place, they come, they go,” continued Mr.
Malcolm.
“They conjure up the past so vividly,” said Charles.
“But sounds surely more than scents,” said Mr. Malcolm.
“Pardon me; the reverse as I think,” answered Charles.
“That is a paradox, Charles,” said Mr. Malcolm; “the smell of
roast-beef never went further than to remind a man of dinner; but
sounds are pathetic and inspiring.”
“Well, sir, but think of this,” said Charles, “scents are complete
in themselves, yet do not consist of parts. Think how very distinct the
smell of a rose is from a pink, a pink from a sweet-pea, a sweet-pea
from a stock, a stock from lilac, lilac from lavender, lavender from
jasmine, jasmine from honeysuckle, honeysuckle from hawthorn, hawthorn
from hyacinth, hyacinth”——
“Spare us,” interrupted Mr. Malcolm; “you are going through the
index of Loudon!”
“And these are only the scents of flowers; how different flowers
smell from fruits, fruits from spices, spices from roast-beef or
pork-cutlets, and so on. Now, what I was coming to is this—these
scents are perfectly distinct from each other, and sui generis;
they never can be confused; yet each is communicated to the
apprehension in an instant. Sights take up a great space, a tune is a
succession of sounds; but scents are at once specific and complete, yet
indivisible. Who can halve a scent? they need neither time nor space;
thus they are immaterial or spiritual.”
“Charles hasn't been to Oxford for nothing,” said his mother,
laughing and looking at Mary; “this is what I call chopping logic!”
“Well done, Charles,” cried Mr. Malcolm; “and now, since you have
such clear notions of the power of smells, you ought, like the man in
the story, to be satisfied with smelling at your dinner, and grow fat
upon it. It's a shame you sit down to table.”
“Well, sir,” answered Charles, “some people do seem to thrive
on snuff at least.”
“For shame, Charles!” said Mr. Malcolm; “you have seen me use the
common-room snuff-box to keep myself awake after dinner; but nothing
more. I keep a box in my pocket merely as a bauble—it was a present.
You should have lived when I was young. There was old Dr. Troughton of
Nun's Hall, he carried his snuff loose in his pocket; and old Mrs.
Vice-Principal Daffy used to lay a train along her arm, and fire it
with her nose. Doctors of medicine took it as a preservative against
infection, and doctors of divinity against drowsiness in church.”
“They take wine against infection now,” said Mr. Reding; “it's a
much surer protective.”
“Wine?” cried Mr. Malcolm; “oh, they didn't take less wine then, as
you and I know. On certain solemn occasions they made a point of
getting drunk, the whole college, from the Vice-Principal or Sub-Warden
down to the scouts. Heads of houses were kept in order by their wives;
but I assure you the jolly god came very near Mr.
Vice-Chancellor himself. There was old Dr. Sturdy of St. Michael's, a
great martinet in his time. One day the King passed through Oxford;
Sturdy, a tall, upright, iron-faced man, had to meet him in procession
at Magdalen Bridge, and walked down with his pokers before him, gold
and silver, vergers, cocked hats, and the rest. There wasn't one of
them that wasn't in liquor. Think of the good old man's horror, Majesty
in the distance, and his own people swaying to and fro under his very
nose, and promising to leave him for the gutter before the march was
ended.”
“No one can get tipsy with snuff, I grant,” said Mr. Reding; “but if
wine has done some men harm it has done others a deal of good.”
“Hair-powder is as bad as snuff,” said Mary, preferring the former
subject; “there's old Mr. Butler of Cooling, his wig is so large and
full of powder that when he nods his head I am sure to sneeze.”
“Ah, but all these are accidents, young lady,” said Mr. Malcolm, put
out by this block to the conversation, and running off somewhat testily
in another direction; “accidents after all. Old people are always the
same; so are young. Each age has its own fashion: if Mr. Butler wore no
wig, still there would be something about him odd and strange to young
eyes. Charles, don't you be an old bachelor. No one cares for old
people. Marry, my dear boy; look out betimes for a virtuous young
woman, who will make you an attentive wife.”
Charles slightly coloured, and his sister laughed as if there was
some understanding between them.
Mr. Malcolm continued: “Don't wait till you want some one to buy
flannel for your rheumatism or gout; marry betimes.”
“You will let me take my degree first, sir?” said Charles.
“Certainly, take your M.A.'s if you will; but don't become an old
Fellow. Don't wait till forty; people make the strangest mistakes.”
“Dear Charles will make a kind and affectionate husband, I am sure,”
said his mother, “when the time comes; and come it will, though not
just yet. Yes, my dear boy,” she added, nodding at him, “you will not
be able to escape your destiny, when it comes.”
“Charles, you must know,” said Mr. Reding to his guest, “is romantic
in his notions just now. I believe it is that he thinks no one good
enough for him. Oh, my dear Charlie, don't let me pain you, I meant
nothing serious; but somehow he has not hit it off very well with some
young ladies here, who expected more attention than he cared to give.”
“I am sure,” said Mary, “Charles is most attentive whenever there is
occasion, and always has his eyes about him to do a service; only he's
a bad hand at small-talk.”
“All will come in time, my dear,” said his mother; “a good son makes
a good husband.”
“And a very loving papa,” said Mr. Malcolm.
“Oh, spare me, sir,” said poor Charles; “how have I deserved this?”
“Well,” proceeded Mr. Malcolm, “and young ladies ought to marry
betimes too.”
“Come, Mary, your turn is coming,” cried Charles; and taking
his sister's hand, he threw up the sash, and escaped with her into the
garden.
They crossed the lawn, and took refuge in a shrubbery. “How strange
it is!” said Mary, as they strolled along the winding walk; “we used to
like Mr. Malcolm so, as children; but now—I like him still, but
he is not the same.”
“We are older,” said her brother; “different things take us now.”
“He used to be so kind,” continued she; “when he was coming, the day
was looked out for; and mamma said, 'Take care you be good when Mr.
Malcolm comes.' And he was sure to bring a twelfth-cake, or a Noah's
ark, or something of the sort. And then he romped with us, and let us
make fun of him.”
“Indeed it isn't he that is changed,” said Charles, “but we; we are
in the time of life to change; we have changed already, and shall
change still.”
“What a mercy it is,” said his sister, “that we are so happy among
ourselves as a family! If we change, we shall change together, as
apples of one stock; if one fails, the other does. Thus we are always
the same to each other.”
“It is a mercy, indeed,” said Charles; “we are so blest that I am
sometimes quite frightened.”
His sister looked earnestly at him. He laughed a little to turn off
the edge of his seriousness. “You would know what I mean, dear Mary, if
you had read Herodotus. A Greek tyrant feared his own excessive
prosperity, and therefore made a sacrifice to fortune. I mean, he gave
up something which he held most precious; he took a ring from his
finger and cast it into the sea, lest the Deity should afflict him, if
he did not afflict himself.”
“My dear Charles,” she answered, “if we do but enjoy God's gifts
thankfully, and take care not to set our hearts on them or to abuse
them, we need not fear for their continuance.”
“Well,” said Charles, “there's one text which has ever dwelt on my
mind, 'Rejoice with trembling.' I can't take full, unrestrained
pleasure in anything.”
“Why not, if you look at it as God's gift?” asked Mary.
“I don't defend it,” he replied; “it's my way; it may be a selfish
prudence, for what I know; but I am sure that, did I give my heart to
any creature, I should be withdrawing it from God. How easily could I
idolize these sweet walks, which we have known for so many years!”
They walked on in silence. “Well,” said Mary, “whatever we lose, no
change can affect us as a family. While we are we, we are to each other
what nothing external can be to us, whether as given or as taken away.”
Charles made no answer.
“What has come to you, dear Charles?” she said, stopping and looking
at him; then, gently removing his hair and smoothing his forehead, she
said, “you are so sad to-day.”
“Dearest Mary,” he made answer, “nothing's the matter, indeed. I
think it is Mr. Malcolm who has put me out. It's so stupid to talk of
the prospects of a boy like me. Don't look so, I mean nothing; only it
annoys me.”
Mary smiled.
“What I mean is,” continued Charles, “that we can rely on nothing
here, and are fools if we build on the future.”
“We can rely on each other,” she repeated.
“Ah, dear Mary, don't say so; it frightens me.”
She looked round at him surprised, and almost frightened herself.
“Dearest,” he continued, “I mean nothing; only everything is so
uncertain here below.”
“We are sure of each other, Charles.”
“Yes, Mary,” and he kissed her affectionately, “it is true, most
true;” then he added, “all I meant was that it seems presumptuous to
say so. David and Jonathan were parted; St. Paul and St. Barnabas.”
Tears stood in Mary's eyes.
“Oh, what an ass I am,” he said, “for thus teasing you about
nothing; no, I only mean that there is One only who cannot die,
who never changes, only One. It can't be wrong to remember this. Do you
recollect Cowper's beautiful lines? I know them without having learned
them—they struck me so much the first time I read them;” and he
repeated them:—
Thou art the source and centre of all minds,
Their only point of rest, Eternal Word.
From Thee departing, they are lost, and rove
At random, without honour, hope, or peace.
From Thee is all that soothes the life of man,
His high endeavour and his glad success,
His strength to suffer and his will to serve.
But oh, Thou Sovereign Giver of all good,
Thou art of all Thy gifts Thyself the crown;
Give what Thou canst, without Thee we are poor,
And with Thee rich, take what Thou wilt away.